


To Gasp and To Breathe

by TheGypsyQueen



Series: A Study in Contrasts [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Gabriel is a jerk, He switches, He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Inappropriate Use of the Song of Solomon, Multi, Other, Panic Attacks, She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), Sorry Not Sorry, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), These dorks, Vaginal Sex, gender fluid crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:33:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22045654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGypsyQueen/pseuds/TheGypsyQueen
Summary: Ancient lives do not mesh together without a few hiccups. Things have to grow and change. But despite age and experience, there are still firsts to share. There are still ways to make the future theirs.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: A Study in Contrasts [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1523642
Comments: 44
Kudos: 298
Collections: Disabled Good Omens, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Shinbi34's Recommendations, That Writing Place Fic Drop





	To Gasp and To Breathe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tortitude](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tortitude/gifts).



> This was written for my dear friend Tortie, who will be officially tagged as soon as I get their name on here like a regular person instead of jumping the gun like a weirdo. Tortie, you're darling and infinitely patient with my weird, random ass, and I appreciate you more than I can say. Also, never stop sending me memes of any kind at all hours, you are a goddamn national treasure and I love you, okay?
> 
> Anyway, actual notes, finally got to delve into a bit of gender fluidity with Crowley, and I enjoyed it immensely, and I hope you do too. :D It's a monster though.

Aziraphale, Principality, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, and Angel of the Lord, did not  _ sleep. _   
  
When he’d first seen the human’s doing that, he’d been curious. Why were they lying so still like that? They’d done it for  _ hours  _ on end and it was the most boring thing in Eden had been since… well, since Eden was created. They’d been quite difficult to rouse, and he’d learned to just let them finish so they could return to be interesting and endearing creatures. It was an odd thing they did but it wasn’t causing any harm, so he decided it must be part of God’s Great Plan and let it be.   
  
After the whole Apple Incident, which poor Crowley still hadn’t lived down, though, sleep became a much more dangerous looking prospect. One of them had to be awake at all times, to guard against dangers. To lie vulnerable for so long, in a world so full of predators and biting things and sickness, seemed incredibly silly to Aziraphale. But when he’d suggested perhaps the humans simply…  _ not _ sleep, they’d looked at him like he’d sprouted a second head.    
  
Over the ensuing centuries, it became apparent to Aziraphale that the humans didn’t choose to sleep - they  _ had  _ to. For whatever strange, biological reason. Even six millenia later, the humans themselves weren’t entirely sure why. They could spend up to a third of their short lives like that, lying prone and unmoving. He had it on good authority (books, and later, Crowley) that they  _ dreamed  _ and the dreams could be quite entertaining, but sometimes dreams were apparently quite frightening and you never really knew what type you’d get. Aziraphale was not a gambling angel (usually), and didn’t see the point in just lying there while there were so many other lovely things to do. One could eat, or listen to music, or drink wine, or watch a show of some kind. One could explore, take in the fresh air and marvel at the majesty of nature. One could simply sit by a warm fire and read for the evening. There were ever so many options, even at night, and it simply seemed like such a waste.    
  
But then, sometime around Rome, Crowley took it up. He claimed it was terribly refreshing and relaxing. Aziraphale had his doubts, but he tried it on the demon’s suggestion.    
  
He slept for over a week and when he woke up, he swore it off for good. He’d missed several missives from Heaven and if the other angels had come to check on him, he dreaded to  _ think _ what might have happened. No, it simply wouldn’t do. Angels did not need to sleep, and therefore, Aziraphale would not sleep.    
  
Crowley, however, had kept at it. It had become a way for the demon to cope with the weary feeling that came with watching time march past. Aziraphale’s distaste for sleep grew the more Crowley leaned on it - he could lose his only companion to sleep for  _ years _ at a time. And then there was the century Crowley slept nearly entirely through. That had been dreadfully dull.   
  
Life was always better with Crowley around.    
  
But, as luck would have it, sleep did have one lovely use. There was nothing more delicious in all of existence (and Aziraphale would know, having tried nearly everything) than falling asleep in a lover’s arms after a rigorous bout of love-making. This was even more true when one’s lover was an insatiable demon literally hellbent on one’s satisfaction. By the time Crowley deigned to let Aziraphale’s head hit the pillow, he was nearly always ready to pass out. He only ever slept for a few hours, or until morning at most, and always woke with the same demon wrapped around him like clinging ivy.

It was, Aziraphale was finding, one of his favorite things.   
  
He always woke up first. Crowley could and often did sleep till noon, unrepentantly lazing about until after lunch unless Aziraphale was keen to go have breakfast somewhere. It worked fine, though. Aziraphale usually had a spot of toast and tea, and sat in bed next to his lover and read. Crowley always wiggled closer to him until he was flush beside him, leaching off the warmth the angel put off even in his sleep. Aziraphale secretly loved that - even in his sleep, Crowley was never satisfied unless they were together. He loved the naked and vulnerable need Crowley displayed when asleep - there was no facade or bravado to him then, just unfiltered want and reaching hands. It was wonderful to feel so desired.    
  
So it was particularly odd to feel the bed move under him before he’d roused for the morning. Aziraphale blinked, his eyes still heavy. He was facing the left side of the bed,  _ Crowley’s _ side of the bed. There was an inordinate and unusual amount of light from that direction.    
  
_ Ah, _ he recalled suddenly.  _ Crowley’s flat.  _   
  
He still thought of it as Crowley’s space. He wasn’t sure why that was. They spent most of their time at the bookshop - when they’d first begun their new relationship, he hadn’t been sure that Crowely would want to be around any more than before. He’d been thrilled when he found Crowley even less inclined to separate that he was, but by sheer necessity, the bookshop had become less  _ Aziraphale’s  _ and more  _ theirs. _ Little reminders and pockets of Crowley littered the shop now - black jackets over the back of the couch and on the coat rack, the fancy coffee pot in the kitchenette, the rather astonishing amount of hair product dominating the bathroom sink. Each one was beloved, a sign that the demon was finally settling, finally putting down roots. The anxiety, the trembling panic always so close to overwhelming his beloved, was finally beginning to ebb away and the calm left in its wake was startling but so very welcome. It felt like a homecoming for them both, though neither of them could remember a time that had been like  _ this. _   
  
But, the downside to two beings occupying a space only intended for one, the shop had become quite cluttered. The clutter didn’t bother Aziraphale, but it had started to prey upon Crowley’s already delicate sense of wellbeing. As a temporary solution, they’d begun to stay some nights at Crowley’s flat, which had remained very much Crowley’s and very much… empty. The expanse of space was unnerving for Aziraphale, reminded all too clearly of the vast emptiness of Heaven. It barely even felt like Crowley here anymore, seeing as the demon had all but abandoned it. But they only spent nights there, in the very soft and luxurious bed, and returned to the shop in the morning. It was a compromise, like so many they’d made, but Aziraphale retained hope that it would only be  _ temporary… _

Something shifted on the bed, and Aziraphale, pulled from his thoughts, watched Crowley sit up. The Serpent in the Garden was thin as ever, the long planes of his back exposed and lain in sharp contrast by the shadows playing over his skin.    
  
Aziraphale smiled, tracing the valley of his beloved’s spine with his eyes. Six thousand years and still, every moment like this was a wonder, breathless and wordless, careless intimacy and vulnerability given from a being so guarded, so tightly curled into himself that Aziraphale wondered if he’d ever be able to untangle it all. There was a time that didn’t feel so long ago that Crowley would never have shown his back to anyone, and certainly never  _ naked.  _ The angel thought he’d never stop being thankful for such a view. 

Crowley tilted ever so slightly, still sleep drunk, and Aziraphale relished the surge of fondness that raced through him. He wondered why his beautiful lover was awake. Perhaps Crowley had forgotten to miracle himself sober last night and needed the loo? It wouldn’t be the first time.    
  
But then as he watched, his lover shifted minutely. Had he not been so well versed in the shapes and planes of that adored corporation, Aziraphale might have missed it altogether, but he knew that back better than he knew his own, and it was  _ changing. _ The waist narrowed ever so slightly, the shoulders becoming less broad, more slim. A few inches of height seemed to just melt away and suddenly, loose, sultry curls cascaded down, covering smooth skin from view in a veil of lovely crimson. The room was suddenly awash in the sweet scent of roses, jasmine, and sensual vanilla.   
  
Stunned, Aziraphale’s mouth watered.    
  
Crowley lifted his - her? - arms, running thin fingers through those loose curls, shoulders flexing and back arching, and Aziraphale decided he needed his hands on that skin, in those curls, lips to lips-

He shifted and reached out, running a hand over one of Crowley’s hips, now more plush and soft, less bone and more give. Crowley flinched, surprised, but then relaxed into the touch. Aziraphale slid closer, using his hands to haul Crowley backward at the same time, pulling the demon flush to his chest. Cool-natured, the demon arched into his warmth with a soft sound of perfect surrender.    
  
“Darling,” the angel whispered, mouthing along the demon’s shoulder and neck.    
  
“Angel,” Crowley murmured softly, like a prayer, reaching behind to wind those elegant fingers into white-gold curls. Aziraphale rolled them forward, pressing his beloved’s torso into the mattress. Crowley immediately arched, pressing that perfect arse back against the angel, who kissed along the column of his lover’s neck.    
  
They’d just made love last night, and it had been wonderful. But he needed his demon  _ again. _ It was strange and incredible and sometimes frightening, how powerful the need was, how consuming the desire. It didn’t seem to matter how many times he had this, how many ways they took and gave and moved together, it always happened again. Just as intense, just as desperate.    
  
Crowley shifted beneath him, bracing strong, thin hands against the mattress and Aziraphale shifted his grip, sliding his grasping palms up from his demon’s hips to the slimmer waist, then over the shape of ribs. His beautiful demon loved being teased on the nipples-

Suddenly, Crowley went tense beneath him. The change was startling - the soft, undulating body welcoming his weight went stiff as a board beneath him and Aziraphale immediately lifted off, running a soothing hand up and into the demon’s hair. He couldn’t explain how he’d discovered it but for some reason a hand loosely gripping there seemed to calm Crowely, or at least ground him enough to help him come down.   
  
Oh, they’d been doing so well. There hadn’t been any of these… episodes for months. But, he supposed, one was certainly due. He’d been able to read the tension in Crowley’s frame for weeks. It was there in the set of the demon’s jaw, the movement of his eyes, the way his hands were shoved into his pockets. Better to have it now than at some other, more inopportune moment, like in public. These… events were deeply vulnerable times for Crowley, and Aziraphale instinctively sought to shelter his lover from sight when they came.    
  
The wings materialized on their own, angelic instinct coming to the fore, and the two of them were suddenly wrapped in a soft cocoon of white feathers. The morning light was soft and golden as it filtered through the primaries, lighting Crowley’s hair like the corona of a blazing sun. That was somehow wholly appropriate, Aziraphale thought.   
  
“‘M’sorry-” Crowley started, voice a little higher and more melodious than usual, even through the tight, fragile tone.   
  
“Shh,” Aziraphale hushed him, smoothing his other hand up his lover’s back. “Shh, darling, you’ve nothing to be sorry for.” Crowley trembled under his hands. “It’s alright, dearest. May I hold you?” Crowley’s curls flew in every direction as he shook his head. “That’s alright. Is this okay?” Aziraphale asked, gently moving his hands in their respective spots. Crowley nodded minutely. “Very well, darling. Just breathe. I’m right here.”   
  
For a few long moments, they stayed like that, Crowley gasping into the mattress and Aziraphale keeping a gentle grip in the demon’s hair. It took a bit, but Crowley’s body began to slowly unclench.    
  
“That’s it, dearest. You’re doing so well,” Aziraphale cooed gently, rubbing soft circles on Crowley’s back with his other hand.    
  
“Hold me now?” Crowley whispered, and Aziraphale answered by pulling his demon up against him. The wily serpent twisted in his arms, settling into his lap and hiding against his neck. He made soft, gentle nonsense sounds against the shell of his beloved’s ear.    
  
He’d learned what to listen for, how it felt when the moment passed. The way Crowley would go lax, his breaths turning shuddery and shallow. The way he’d cling, like he was lost at sea and Aziraphale was his only hope of rescue. This was always a sign that it was over, and it was safe to touch again.   
  
He wrapped his arms tightly around his demon, feeling cool skin prickling. He groped with one hand for the black duvet and wrapped it around his lover, and in response, Crowley burrowed impossibly closer.    
  
“I have you, darling, it’s alright,” Azirapahle whispered, and Crowley nodded faintly.    
  
“‘M’sorry, angel-”   
  
“Nonsense, dearest,” Aziraphale smiled, pressing a soft kiss to the delicate skin just below the demon’s ear. “Can you tell me… was it something I-”

“No,” Crowley shook his head violently, still refusing to lift it. The crown of his skull knocked against the side of Aziraphale’s jaw, but neither of them paid it any mind. An angel like Aziraphale would need something a bit harder than that to make them pay attention. “It wasn’t you, angel, it was me, being a blessed idiot-”   
  
“You’re not an idiot, dearest,” Aziraphale interjected, stroking his beloved’s bare back. “You are clever and brilliant in so many wonderful ways, and you are most certainly not an idiot.”    
  
Crowley paid him no attention at all. “-just we didn’t talk about this, and I had to go and bloody  _ do it, _ without thinking-”   
  
“Do what, darling?”   
  
“-only it felt so bloody-” Crowley tensed again in his arms, and Aziraphale shushed him gently. “Felt…  _ nice,”  _ the demon finally managed. “Felt really good, waking up next to you, all warm and right and I just thought, this could be perfect if I just- just changed a  _ little bit. _ ”   
  
“You are already perfect, dearest,” Aziraphale protested. Crowley scoffed against his shoulder. “Perfect to me,” the angel corrected quickly.   
  
“Not to me, not today.”

“I don’t understand, darling, help me?”    
  
Crowley just shifted for a moment, before finally lifting his head to look Aziraphale in the eye. The same molten gold eyes regarding him through a thick veil of red curls, and Aziraphale immediately shifted to brush the long hair back to see his beloved more clearly. There were… minute differences. A softer jaw and brow, fuller cheeks and lips, the sharp line of his chin and neck dulled to something muted and sensual but still present. Further down, a small pair of breasts were all but hidden from view by the long hair.    
  
Aziraphale waited, but with no further explanation forthcoming, he was at a loss. “I still don’t understand, darling.”   
  
Crowley rolled his eyes dramatically, huffing a breath and flipping his hair back over his shoulder. “The boobs, angel, the boobs. And the rest, but mostly the boobs. And… the other bits.”   
  
“Oh?” Aziraphale glanced pointedly downward and his demon squirmed. “Well, I’d certainly  _ noticed,  _ if that’s what you mean. But it’s hardly the first time you’ve looked like this, dearest, I’m not certain I see what all the fuss is about.”   
  
“ _ Yes it is  _ the first time-” Crowley protested.   
  
“No, darling, I distinctly recall Golgotha. You had such lovely braids, quite fetching. And then there was Ujjain, in I believe the 6th century? You looked most tempting in that sari-”   
  
“No, that’s not what I mean, angel,” Crowley sighed, pressing their foreheads together. “ I mean it’s the first time I’ve been like this since we’ve been…  _ us. _ ”   
  
“Oh,” Aziraphale said, still not following. Crowley could apparently tell by the tone of his voice, and sighed again.    
  
“We didn’t…  _ talk  _ about this at all. We’re supposed to, right? Talk about every blessed thing.” Aziraphale nodded softly. “‘S’how we work things out, innit? But I didn’t… talk to you, I just did it, and when we talked about, you know, the  _ past-”  _ this was Crowley speak for the long millennia when they couldn’t be with each other and had sought comfort in human arms, infrequently on Aziraphale’s part and almost never on Crowley’s. “-you never- you were always with-”   
  
“Men,” Aziraphale finished quietly, finally realizing what had sent Crowley on a tailspin. “Darling, I… well. What you said is true. I’ve never… not with a woman.” He leaned forward, nosing his demon’s cheek. “But you are not a  _ woman. _ You are my wonderful, beautiful demon, and if this the way you want to look today or everyday or whenever you like, I shall find you just as lovely as before.”   
  
Crowley frowned. Aziraphale quirked an eyebrow, sensing that he’d been off the mark but not entirely sure how. His demon was gnawing on the inside of his cheek, struggling with words, and Aziraphale took the chance to consider.    
  
The corporation was dear, of course, but not so much as the demon inhabiting it. Aziraphale hadn’t changed his hardly at all since he’d been issued it - on purpose, anyway. There was a certain… softness to it, that hadn’t come standard issue, which  _ probably _ had to do with all the desserts, but Crowley loved that softness, and Aziraphale was loathe to take away any of the few pleasures Crowley actually indulged in.    
  
But Crowley… the base of his corporation had stayed the same. The same hair color and curls, the same skin tone, the same eyes, the same general height and build. But the details, those he changed on what seemed like whims. He changed his wardrobe with every minute change in the fashions of the times, and his hairstyle even more frequently. He’d shifted between a masculine and feminine presentation throughout the centuries whenever it suited him, and it had all seemed so  _ random _ and arbitrary that Aziraphale had assumed that’s all it was - random and arbitrary, based on the demon’s whims. It had never occurred to him that Crowley’s presentation might be anything more than another facet of his vanity (not that Aziraphale  _ minded  _ his demon’s vanity, though, he liked to take long lingering looks when Crowley wasn’t aware), mostly because  _ his  _ was only that.   
  
But perhaps he’d been wrong. 

“It isn’t just that, is it?” he asked gently. Crowley frowned harder, staring at the space between them like it was fascinating. “It’s something more.”   
  
“Dunno how to explain it,” Crowley burst out, long fingers busily picking at the edge of the duvet wrapped around his shoulders. “‘S’not- it doesn’t make sense, y’know? ‘M’not even  _ human, _ Imma bloody  _ demon _ , don’t even have a blessed gender. Shouldn’t matter. But it just…”   
  
“Does,” Aziraphale finished. “I’m so sorry, darling, I thought it was simply a flight of fancy, I didn’t realize-”   
  
“‘S’fine, angel, really,” Crowley sighed, leaning his head to Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Don’t think even I knew that it wasn’t one, really. Just some days, not a lot but sometimes, it-” she gestured vaguely to herself. “-feels like the usual way isn’t  _ right. _ Doesn’t fit, like a badly tailored shirt. Pinches in spots, y’know?” Aziraphale nodded, like he understood, and in some ways he almost did. He had tried some more modern clothing, but it had felt like Crowley described - just not right. He didn’t think it was precisely the same thing, this seemed like less of a comfort issue and something much more intrinsic to  _ Crowley _ , but it was enough to understand. 

And that was all they ever really needed.    
  
He shifted, slipped a finger beneath his beloved’s chin, tilting the demon’s face up to his own. How very small Crowely could make herself seem sometimes, despite being taller and so very brilliant. She was a fine-boned thing, her wiry frame hiding a deeper frailty, a vulnerability that she fought so hard to hide. Aziraphale could see it, feel the raw parts of her as though they were his own. These delicate spaces, slipped between ribs and still red and sore in spite of the years, these were Aziraphale’s. These tender spots belonged to him, given over to his care by the demon carrying them, his to shield and guard with far more care than he ever gave the blasted gate. And here was one more, another gift from his beloved to hold and cherish and soothe. How had he gone all these centuries and  _ not known this? _ How could there still be new things to learn about this wondrous creature?   
  
How could  _ anyone  _ cast out a being so desperate to love, so hurt by the lack?

Golden eyes met his, still hesitant, and he kissed the corner of Crowley’s mouth tenderly. The moment was gone, and the kiss carried no heat, only his adoration.    
  
“My wonderful darling,” he whispered, dragging his lips over the curve of his lover’s cheek. “I love you and all your ways. ‘Behold, you are beautiful, my love. Behold, you are beautiful-’”

Crowley snickered, turning her head in a half-hearted attempt at escape. Aziraphale only held on tighter. “Don’t you start-”    
  
“‘Your eyes are doves behind your veil-’”   
  
“Blessed weird doves-”   
  
Aziraphale grinned, chasing the demon’s lips with his own. “‘Your hair like a flock of goats-’”   
  
“Oh how bloody lovely-”   
  
“‘-leaping down the slopes of Gilead. Your teeth-’”   
  
“My teeth now, how nice-”   
  
“‘-are like a flock of shorn ewes-’”   


“ _ Ewes? _ How flattering, angel-”

“‘-come up from the washing,” Aziraphale persisted. He was almost to the good parts, and Crowley knew it. He could skip the parts about the lambs. “‘Your lips are like a scarlet thread, and your mouth is  _ lovely.’” _ Crowley fell silent and still, playful resistance ebbing away. “‘Your cheeks are like pomegranates beneath your veil,’” Aziraphale continued, breathing the words into the delicate skin just under his lover’s jaw, etching them into her flesh for them both to see, a private, intimate thing to treasure together. A reminder, when Crowley’s panic rose again, of  _ this.  _ “‘Your neck is like the tower of David, built in rows of stone,’” he kissed softly along a tendon as his beloved leaned his head back with a soft, wondering exhale. “‘On it hang a thousand shields, all of them shields of warriors.’”   
  
“‘M’not-” Crowley muttered, trembling faintly under his lips.   
  
“ _ You are,”  _ Aziraphale insisted. She  _ was, _ she  _ was,  _ oh, how she  _ was.  _ “‘Your two breasts are like two fawns, twins of a gazelle, that graze among the lilies.’” He let one hand drift to cup this new part of his beloved, achingly soft and pliant in his palm, and Crowley trembled harder with the softest, gentlest sound of love Aziraphale could have imagined. “‘Until the day breathes and the shadows flee, I will go away to the mountain of myrrh and the hill of frankincense. You are altogether beautiful, my love; there is  _ no  _ flaw in you.’”   
  
“ _ Fuck  _ myrrh and frankincense, angel, stay with me,” Crowley whined, twining her thin arms around Aziraphale’s neck.   
  
“I would never leave you,” he sighed, kissing up to his lover’s jaw. “Not for all the myrrh in the world.”

He tipped them over onto the bed, drawing the duvet around them both, and indulged in a series of long, lazy kisses, until his love was sighing and sated, lips kiss-swollen and her head on the angel’s chest. He carded his fingers through the demon’s hair, twirling curls around his index finger idly while Crowley dozed, warm and soft and safe. The light from the window lit the red hair slipping through his fingers red-gold, like it was on fire, and he stared at them, a thought pushing through his contentment and just on the edges of his awareness. 

It finally clicked when he noticed the way the lock of hair curled around his finger.   
  
And Aziraphale, Principality, Guardian of the Eastern Gate and Angel of the Lord, did not join his lover in a mid-morning nap. He stared at his hand for the longest time, and he formed a plan.

*+*+*

The Demon Crowley, Serpent in the Garden, Original Tempter and Purveyor of Sin, was having a lovely morning.  
  
There’d been a little hiccup in the beginning, just a bit of a… a _moment,_ as Aziraphale called them. The angel had all kinds of words to describe them, all kinds of ways to avoid calling them what they actually were - _panic attacks._ The effort was deeply appreciated, as Crowley felt she might explode with embarrassment if such a thing were said out loud. Her angel’s intuitive understanding of this was further proof of how much he cared.  
  
And as much as she shouldn’t, as much as it should be bloody _obvious_ at this point, she craved these little affirmations, hung each one as a banner in her heart, which carried on ridiculously, chanting _he loves me, he loves me, see here how he loves me._ She’d shout it from the rooftops if such a thing were at all advisable, and really it wasn’t. It was hard enough to keep from accidentally summoning up storms every time they made love, which was _often._   
  
But that little hiccup, the _moment_ , passed, though it felt like an eternity in the living of it, stretched unbearably thin and taut, the vulnerable underbelly of her exposed, her mind twisting and screaming and railing. But it did pass, and she was left lost in its wake, pulled out by a current she couldn’t fight and left there, lungs half full already and nearly drowned. But she had an angel to cling to, steady, strong hands to hold her and soft lips to whisper sweet things to her, thick with praise and love until she could _believe_ it again.   
  
She grinned, covered the stupid thing with her hands, but it was still there behind her fingers, mad and wild. Her reflection looked debauched, long hair sex-touseled and lips bruise red. She looked well-fucked, even though she hadn’t been… well. Hadn’t been _today._ She doubted that would remain the case for long.   
  
She surveyed herself in the mirror, reacquainting herself with this particular set of parts. It had been a while since she’d seen herself like this. Nanny Ashtoreth had been great fun to put together, and Crowley looked smashing in a pencil skirt, but that was work, not pleasure, and the rearing of one single human child turned out to be enough work to prevent any kind of pleasure, really. She’d spent those days buttoned up so tight she’d forgotten she even _had_ an Effort. But now, naked and staring herself down, she remembered the things she liked about being feminine presenting.   
  
There was a softness to this form that was appealing. It wasn’t the same as her angel’s softness - even like this, Crowley was still _skinny._ There was no other way to put it. This was as close as she ever came to being soft, and even then, it was only in parts. The thighs, the hips, and the breasts, and still just barely. But it was still her. Still her, ribs outlined and small breasts tipped with dusky nipples, subtly turned up. The long hair stark against her pale skin, eyes odd and callow in the harsh bathroom light. She turned from the mirror - she could never look long, not without clothes and glasses to hide and pad and conceal. There was too much there that still stung, even with the buffer of her angel’s love wrapped around her.  
  
Instead, refusing to let go of the general pleasantness of the morning, she ran herself a bath, searing hot, just as she liked it. She sifted through her oil collection - she liked bath things as a rule, and had a great number of them, bubbles and bombs and soaps and cakes, but today didn’t feel like a day for those. She wanted oils, old-fashioned and luxurious, sinking into her skin with their scent and their slick silk feel. She wanted to be soft, maybe not like her angel was soft, but soft in her own way, something pleasant to be stroked by strong, broad hands.  
  
She chose myrrh. It seemed appropriate. 

She settled into her tub, huge, austentatious thing with the jets and the subtle curves to let her lay back in anyway she pleased. Those jets  _ had _ seen some use, before… well.  _ Before. _ She’d barely touched the tub since she and Aziraphale had become… them.    
  
The words didn’t work, the human paradigms and dynamics failed in the face of what they were, and there was no angelic or demonic equivalent. They were  _ unprecedented,  _ something that gave Crowley immense pleasure. Something unforeseen, something that had been deemed impossible, and yet, there they were. Like new growth in volcanic slag, alive and thriving in spite of  _ everything,  _ perhaps  _ because  _ of it. 

They were alive and they were together and there was nothing more in the universe Crowley could truly want. The rest was just background noise.   
  
She twisted her hair up into a pile atop her head, miracling a tie to hold it in place. She’d never really mastered this sort of thing, the casual parts of femininity, but her hair stayed where she put it and she sank down into the tub, inhaling the scent and relishing the water.    
  
She stayed there for a long while, floating and warm, until she heard the bathroom door open.   
  
“Dearest, are you- ah. I’m sorry, darling, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Aziraphale’s voice was a wonderful addition to so many relaxing things, slipping smooth down her spine. This kind of casual intimacy, simply walking in on each other in a state of undress without fear, was new and still a little difficult, but Crowley pushed through the instinct to curl in on herself, hide her underbelly and her skinny, bony frame.    
  
“You aren’t interrupting,” she replied, attempting to purr and failing. With this voice it came out more like a coo, which was definitely more Aziraphale’s thing.

Her angel smiled indulgently, stepping over the pile of clothes Crowley had abandoned there last night, and sat on the broad side of the tub, as prim as ever and so wildly at odds with the sleek, ultra-modern bathroom, done in grays and blacks and the occasional pop of gold for effect. He’d gone for the blue button up and suspenders today, with those warm beige trousers he so loved. Crowley slid closer - six thousand years of denial now meant that if she had the chance to touch her angel, she did. Now, though, she settled for being closer. She wouldn’t get his stodgy clothes wet.

Aziraphale reached for her, though, cupping cheek delicately before sliding a finger down to lift her jaw slightly.   
  
“I had thought we might get lunch,” he started genially, and Crowley made to reply, but the gentle pressure of his finger under jaw kept her mouth closed. She could have forced the issue, but it was so much more rewarding to float in the warmth of the bath and let her angel keep her jaw shut as he pleased. “But you are simply  _ exquisite  _ like this, darling. I think I might step out for a moment, let you finish your bath at your leisure, and then perhaps we could meet for an early dinner?” 

Crowley shifted, nuzzling into her lover’s palm. “I can get out and come with you, angel, it’s no trouble.”

“I know, dearest, but if you stay, I shall imagine you like this all the while,” Aziraphale murmured, his hand slipping down to cup the delicate flesh of her throat, where she was most vulnerable. That brazen touch, sliding along her neck, was so deliciously erotic, wonderful because of the danger, but more because of the  _ trust. _ She was safe in his palm, safer than she’d ever been her whole existence, and that safety was freeing. “And I want you to relax. Let me take care of you, let me spoil you,” the angel continued, purposely calling back to that first night together, when they’d collided in a fury and stayed in passion.    
  
Ahh, this feeling. It had grown easier in the months since that first time, when they were half mad in anger and fear. That twitching unease, the need to please and provide for her angel, still existed and sometimes, it grew to how it was, that undeniable, pervasive panic. But now, usually, it was a settled feeling, something that just lived in her, rather than something that was trying to shake her apart from the inside. It had grown easier to accept her angel’s doting in return. In truth, it had become a much adored ritual. Crowley made her grand gestures, her gifts and treats and proclamations, and Aziraphale responded with a thousand tiny things, all thoughtless and casual, but so very dear. This was one of those, and it was positively… domestic. A thing a doting husband might do for his wife - “here, dear, you’ve had a rough week. Have a lie in and a long bath, and I’ll do the shopping and the washing, shall I?”   


It was lovely in Crowley’s head, and she beamed up at Aziraphale. “Would you mind terribly?” she demurred, feeling suddenly quite feminine and very spoiled.   
  
“I insist, dearest,” Aziraphale replied, playing the part so effortlessly. He leaned over and kissed the top of her head, and she turned her face up to catch his lips.   
  
“I love you,” she breathed in a rush. A few months wasn’t enough to wear that one in - it was still too new, felt stolen, strange and risky.    
  
“I love you, as well,” her angel whispered back, kissing her again with his fingers back under her chin.    
  
They agreed to meet at a restaurant that Aziraphale loved, a tapas place with an excellent wine list. There was a band playing, a modern jazz sound that Crowley was excited to hear in person. It was a compromise, one of so many they’d made. Two six thousand year long lives did not just seamlessly mesh together after all. There were growing pains, parts that didn’t fit quite right. Things had to be cut out, spaces expanded. Things had to change.   
  
Still in the tub, Crowley reached for her phone. It was exactly where she expected it to be, in spite of having been left in the bedroom. She flicked it open, pulling up her emails. Oh how she loved her angel, but Aziraphale was consistently astonished by the sheer number of things that could be accomplished on one’s mobile.    
  
As she’d hoped, there was a reply from her realtor there. She tapped it with a wet finger, but her mobile knew better than to protest. She read over the email intently, and then sighed, sinking down into the tub as deep as she could without submerging her hair. Her phone was dropped onto the side of the tub without a thought, still far too smart to allow itself to shatter.    
  
The cottage. The sellers had accepted her offer. All she had to do was sign the paperwork and transfer the money and it was hers.  _ Theirs.  _ Which was a bit problematic as Aziraphale had no idea the blessed thing existed.    
  
It had started as a lark. The bookshop was tight quarters even without a demon slowly migrating belongings to it. She still hadn’t really brought any clothes over, just miracled whatever she wanted to wear out of her closet and then back at the day’s end, and there was absolutely no space for her TV anywhere. She loved the bookshop because it was a testament to her angel, but there was no space for her there. That being said, Aziraphale didn’t fit in her flat either. There wasn’t enough space for all of his books and things, and even if there were space, she’d never ask him to give up the shop. She’d sooner give up the flat and store her things and just find somewhere to squeeze into.   
  
Or, as the thought had occurred to her one gray day in early November, she could find space that was enough for  _ both  _ of them.    
  
She’d looked around London first. She liked London well enough, but what she really loved about it was Aziraphale, so her attachment only went so far. And though there were a number of lovely little houses that would have suited well enough, none of them felt  _ right _ . They lacked the quaint and dated charm that a place needed to sufficiently hold Aziraphale and none of them had a garden that felt at all right. So she’d begun looking further out, branching further and further until one day she’d stumbled upon a little listing on one of those realty websites for a little cottage in the South Downs and it was…  _ perfect.  _ It was warm and charming, with big windows to let in lots of light, and a lovely study just off the kitchen and there was a master bedroom on the second floor with an ensuite bath, in dire need of an update. A second bedroom could be Crowley’s own office (though for what, Someone only knew) and there was a  _ garden. _ A proper one, a bit neglected, but with space and good fertile soil.    
  
The pictures on the listing were enough to have Crowley driving out to the South Downs the next day, calling a realtor whose services she’d used over the years. She’d moved property a few times in the last few decades (one couldn’t just keep miracling money forever, Hell got annoyed at that, so it was prudent to invest), and the realtor got things done on Crowley’s schedule, which was always ridiculously fast. A viewing had been arranged, and the cottage was as good as it appeared in the pictures. A bit dated but nothing a few miracles couldn’t fix. She’d made an offer on the spot, a lowball number that she was sure would get rejected out of hand.    
  
But the owners had sent a counter offer.    
  
So began a back-and-forth game of offer and counter offer. They’d come back with a higher number than Crowley liked, so she’d send back something lower and with a stipulation, something like “update the master bath,” or “new roof.” Some stipulations were accepted and sent back with another number, some rejected. She’d been ready to give up, let the cottage go. She could miracle her way through the process, of course, and if it had been just for her, she might have. But it was also for  _ Aziraphale _ , it was for the two of them to have together, and miracling it all into place felt like cheating. She wanted to acquire the property the human way, using real, legitimate money she’d acquired through legitimate investments.   
  
But they’d accepted her last offer.   
  
Which meant, if she wanted it, if  _ they  _ wanted it… they could have a home of their own.   
  
She clamored to her feet abruptly, shivering at the pervasive chill in her flat. She didn’t even  _ like  _ the bloody cold, why was it always so cold? Why had she ever thought this flat was a good idea? She loved the space, the openness, the sensation that she was free floating in emptiness. She didn’t have to touch anything she didn’t want to, was completely free of that claustrophobic feeling that bit into her spine every time she’d been forced to exist in Hell. It had been everything she thought she wanted, when she got it.   
  
But now she knew what it felt like to wake up with Aziraphale, and that was so much  _ more. _   
  
She slid out of the tub and made for her closet, but stopped short, catching sight of herself in the mirror.    
  
_ “‘Your lips are like a scarlet thread, and your mouth is lovely,’” _ the echo of Aziraphale’s voice whispered.  _ “‘Your cheeks are like halves of a pomegranate behind your veil.’” _   
  
Crowley crossed her arms over her chest and flushed. “Had to be the blessed Song of Solomon,” she muttered, stalking out of the bathroom and feeling her traitorous cheeks flush. “Leave it to an angel to quote the bloody Scripture.”   
  
In the quiet and secret of her own mind, when she’d first read the Song of Solomon, all those centuries ago, she’d read it in  _ his  _ voice, imagined her angel whispering it into her ear with his strong arm wrapped around her. It had still been so strange and new then, even as it was a few thousand years old, and she still fought the fantasies when they came upon her. But that one, the breath had fled her lungs and she’d nearly moaned out loud. She’d fled to her tent in the desert and huddled there, afraid that her longing might somehow draw Aziraphale to her. It hadn’t. It never did.   
  
That had taken another four thousand years.    
  
“Stop getting your hopes up,” she scolded herself as she entered her closet, overly large and full, but carefully organized. “He probably won’t want to leave London. He loves London. You know that,” she continued, squaring up to the sizable corner that represented her more feminine choices. The clothes seemed to quail before her  _ as they should. _ “And even  _ if  _ he’s alright with leaving London,  _ and  _ he liked the South Downs-” Aziraphale adored the South Downs, she knew that. “- you’ve not even consulted him, like a big idiot. You’re supposed to be…  _ together,  _ or whatever it is, and you’ve not even told him about it!” She frowned down at the offerings, flicking through her hangers before settling on a pair of skintight leather pants with strategic tears and a tee with a plunging neckline. She dressed with a snap, stepped into a pair of red heels, and slung on her favorite feminine cut jacket.    
  
She didn’t realize until she was already out of the building that she’d forgotten the bra, and by then she was committed to the look and wasn’t going back for anything.   
  
The whole agonizing-in-silence thing was so pre-Apocalypse, she was past that. She was in a… a  _ thing _ , a  _ relationship  _ thing with Aziraphale now, and they’d moved beyond all that pining nonsense.   
  
The only way to know for sure, she decided, was to ask. 

*+*+*

It had started as a bit of a lark.  
  
The idea had occurred to Aziraphale in the lazy morning, watching his beloved curl into him and sleep. Safe and and unworried, happy in his arms. They’d come so very far, defeated so many obstacles, that even such a small thing was a victory he’d never tire of. Every single one of Crowley’s careless, vulnerable moments, all of his - no, _her,_ today it was her - relaxed smiles were more precious to him than all the riches of his world, more beloved than even his books.   
  
He loved Crowley. But he couldn’t always be there, that wasn’t their way. Crowley had her wiles and mischief she liked to pursue, at her leisure and purely for the enjoyment of being a general menace, and Aziraphale had his books. He didn’t want Crowley to be beholden to him, to be lashed at his side. The demon was best when not caged, when she was free to indulge in her wild imagination. She’d been so close beside him these past few wonderful months, but that wasn’t who she was. It was worry and anxiety that kept her close, and he understood that. That wasn’t what he wanted for his beloved. He wanted her to be free, free to roam and explore and be herself without the spectre of another… _episode._   
  
He wanted to give her something, something to ground her, a physical thing she could see and touch in his absence to hold panic back. It had been a hazy, unformed thing in his mind, until he saw her hair, twined about his finger, lit in the morning light like gold. Then it was sharp, so stunning that he lost his breath to it.  
  
A ring.  
  
He could give Crowley a ring.  
  
He was completely aware of what such a gift would mean, what it symbolized in their chosen world. It wasn’t just the item he would be offering, but everything it represented - himself, his life, his love. All of him, for her. That was all already true. None of it would be a great shock to Crowley, or shouldn’t be in any case. And they were immortal beings older than time itself, they certainly didn’t _need_ a license or any such thing… except maybe for taxes, he realized. The taxes had to be correct. But aside from that, it wasn’t about the idea of being _married_ or having a wedding _._ That was a human concept, and didn’t really apply.   
  
It was about them, and the symbol of them. Something that Crowley could keep with her, something small and intimate that she could look at and know it was part of him, a tiny piece of the vast thing he felt for her that she could carry on her hand.  
  
But to do that, he had to acquire a ring. He might have miracled one up but… he wasn’t sure that he was that creative, for a start, and even if he was, it was almost… better to go looking for it, to find something precious and perfect and take it back to his beloved it, present it to her for her approval. The angelic side of him was very much enamored with the idea, which was strange, but the more Aziraphale explored their blooming relationship, the more he found his angelic instincts settling into it like it was truly meant to be.   
  
He probably ought not be so surprised. Her Ineffable Plan, after all.  
  
What he hadn’t anticipated, however, was the sheer number of such pieces on offer. He’d naturally gone to all the best and most prestigious jewelers in London. Crowley was a creature of taste - and vanity - and deserved only the finest, and truthfully Aziraphale’s own instincts wouldn’t settle for less either. And he’d been shown ring after ring and dismissed them all, frustrating more than a few finely dressed salespersons. He wasn’t even sure what to tell them he wanted, knew only that it couldn’t be white, couldn’t be diamond. Such a thing would be too cliche, too _pure_ for Crowley’s taste. It needed color and flair. It couldn’t be the traditional solitaire set, either. It had to be just right.   
  
And so it had gone, for _hours,_ and he’d nearly given up hope until he just happened upon a small jeweler’s shop, boasting unique and handcrafted pieces. _That_ piqued his interest. Crowley was a unique creature unlike anything else in all the universe, and a ring to match would be superb. He entered the shop, and explained his situation to the very patient girl at the counter.  
  
“She’s… unlike anyone. A traditional ring wouldn’t suit her at all,” he sighed, half in love and half frustrated out of his mind. Beguiling demon, thwarting his plans even from the bath in her flat across town.   
  
“So no diamonds, then?” the girl asked with a smile. “Is there a color she’d prefer? Or perhaps you’d prefer?”   
  
He thought a beige or cream or even gold, pictured them on Crowley and frowned. But then he pictured his beloved at her usual, in blacks and greys and reds.   
  
“She wears quite a lot of black, but I don’t think that’s quite right for a ring,” he began thoughtful.  
  
“Right, it should pop, not blend into her usual outfits,” the girl nodded encouragingly.   
  
“She looks-” _exquisite._ “-very fetching in red. And gray or… a dark silver,”   
  
The girl hummed, tapping her chin thoughtfully for a moment, before meandering behind the counter, looking through the glass cases at the different options. She looked up at him and paused. “That’s a nice ring,” she said suddenly, pointing to his pinky finger.   
  
“Oh,” Aziraphale had forgotten he was even wearing the thing. It was mostly habit. “It’s an old family heirloom,” he explained, pulling it off for her to get a closer look. He was gratified that she leaned in to look rather than taking it.   
  
“Angel wings,” she whispered, then stood up straight. “I think I have something,” she said, trotting off to another section of cases. She pulled something out and hurried back. “Here, have a look at this,” she said, sliding a box across the glass to him.   
  
He felt his mouth drop open a little.   
  
Humans were truly incredible, their capacity to imagine and create such beauty.   
  
It was nothing so great and splendid as the ones he’d seen in the bigger establishments. No great precious stone or complicated setting. It was a simple band of antiqued silver, with a gold feather lain over it. Nestled under the feather was a beautiful, bloodred gemstone.  
  
“It’s gold and silver, obviously, and the stone is a pyrope garnet, 8 carats by weight,” the girl rambled a bit. “Would you believe that _ants_ dug it up? Absolutely mad.”   
  
“Ants?” Aziraphale asked, still staring. He reached out tentatively to touch the thing, hold it in his palm. It was surprisingly weighty.   
  
“Yeah, in America. They cut the stones out of their hills and bring them to the surface. Throw ‘em out like ant rubbish,” she smiled, nervously.   
  
“You made this,” he finally realized. She nodded shyly.   
  
“I just… dreamed it up,” she shrugged.  
  
“It’s… perfect,” Aziraphale whispered, tracing the fine, minute detail of the feather. The marvel of it all. A perfect miracle. His faith in Heaven had all but shattered but his faith in God remained strong, and he’d wondered since the night of the failed Apocalypse if Crowley was right, if it was all part of Her Plan. But suddenly, holding this ring, he was sure that before time began, She in her Great Wisdom would form dense and lovely garnets and made tiny ants in such a clever way that they, eons into the future, would unearth such a beautiful, clear, bloodred gemstone to be found and wrought by human hands, ultimately delivered into the care of one young London woman who would, in her own small ineffability, conceive of a ring and craft it meticulously and set the stone into it, and then one day set that ring into the palm of an angel who sought _exactly this_ , even without knowing it.  
  
It was, truly, ineffable.   
  
“I’ll take it,” he told her. She blinked at him.  
  
“You… you will? Right, then, the cost is-”  
  
“The cost is no object, dear,” he cut her off. Heaven wasn’t tracking his miracles anymore anyway, and he couldn’t think of anything that would amuse Crowley more than using a heavenly miracle up to purchase this ring.   
  
He made his purchase, put off resizing - he excused it as saying he didn’t know his intended’s size and they would be back if it was necessary. He forwent the little bag and tucked the ring box into his pocket.   
  
As he left the store, though, a swell of nerves overtook him. They hadn’t _discussed_ this, not even in passing. Angels and demons don’t get married. In truth, Aziraphale doubted Heaven was even sure what marriage was, beyond the very basic version that had existed in Eden. It was a societal construct that had changed over the ages as all societal constructs did, and he and Crowley both predated the very concept by an immeasurable amount of time. It was meaningless to them - they were beyond human law and society. They were more than that, more than a couple tied by law and tradition. They existed on several different dimensions, for goodness’ sake.

But he still  _ wanted  _ to do it.   
  
Maybe not all the pomp and circumstance. A wedding sounded exceedingly silly to him.    
  
But perhaps a cake…   
  
Smiling to himself, he checked his watch. It was a quarter till four, and he’d be late to meet his beloved at the restaurant they’d agreed on if he didn’t get a wiggle on-   
  
“Aziraphale,” an awfully familiar voice said, feigning a tinny sort of cheerfulness that sent shivers down his spine. He froze for a fraction of a second and then turned.   
  
It had never been a good idea to have an Archangel at one’s back.   
  
“Gabriel,” he replied, striving for cool disinterest. “To what do I owe the…” he frowned in distaste before spitting out “ _ Pleasure?” _   
  
“Thought I’d pop down to visit my tailor,” Gabriel replied, in that fake amicability he had, like a wolf in sheep’s clothing. It was an apt image, as he was adjusting the cuff of his immaculate, sterile suit.    
  
“Yes,” Aziraphale nodded, like Gabriel had said something worthy of agreement. “Well, best of luck with that. I’m afraid I have an appointment to keep,” he continued, stepping back to make his retreat.    
  
That was a mistake.    
  
He’d been on Earth a long time. He’d been around humans a long time. But he’d never dismissed his boss (ex-boss now, but that was besides the point) and he’d certainly never retreated from him. He’d been around Crowley - no, he’d been wrapped up in Crowely, doted upon and spoiled. Crowley, who read his body language and the things he didn’t say better than the demon read English. But Gabriel didn’t read body language any more complicated than dominance and submission. Gabriel was, at heart, the hawk that he’d been when he visited Joseph all those years ago. A predator, tuned to pursue fleeing prey.    
  
Which was exactly what a predator would see when Aziraphale took a step back.    
  
Gabriel pressed forward, reaching out to grab Aziraphale’s arm, that cold smile firmly in place. And suddenly, it didn’t matter that in head to head combat Aziraphale, a cherub by making, would have likely been able to turn an archangel out by his ears. It didn’t matter than he was trained for battle and Gabriel was a glorified town crier with delusions of grandeur. The only thing that Aziraphale could remember was eons of degradation and humiliation, of constantly fighting to be seen as  _ good,  _ as  _ worthy.  _ All he could recall was the creeping feeling that something was inherently wrong with him, and no matter how hard he tried to hide it, Gabriel could see it, was sneering at it.    
  
He froze.    
  
“Listen here,  _ Sunshine,” _ Gabriel snarled, but before he could continue, another voice rang out.   
  
“ _ Oi!”  _   
  
Aziraphale flinched.  _ No, _ he protested internally,  _ run, you infernal serpent, get out of here- _

*+*+*   


“Hands off!” Crowley snarled, grabbing  _ that prick’s _ arm and shoving him bodily backward. She might have looked feminine, but it was just a matter of vanity. All the same strength was there. All the fury, too. She pressed herself between her angel and Gabriel.   
  
“Ah, the other one. The rat and his pet snake,” Gabriel laughed, correcting his awful suit. Crowley stared hard at it, fine Italian merino wool and immaculate stitching. Something bad would happen to that suit, probably involving red paint.   
  
“ _ Fuck you, _ ” Crowley spat back, flashing her fangs. They were already primed to strike, filling with venom.    
  
“I didn’t realize you intended to toy with your food for so long,  _ Crawly,”  _ Gabriel continued, like she hadn’t spoken at all. The old name was a sneer, a snide reminder.  _ On your belly you shall crawl… _   
  
“Here’ssss a thought,” Crawley replied, lips curling in distaste. “How about you sssscuttle on back Upstairs like the annoying bitty bug you are, and I refrain from ripping your corporation’sss throat out.” She smiled, sharp as a knife. “Ever had a corporation dismembered? Quite the experience, I assure you.” Behind her, Aziraphale’s hand grabbed her jacket insistently, providing her an abrupt reminder of the stakes. Baiting an Archangel, even the least threatening of all of them, was not a good plan when one had one’s traumatized lover at one’s back. “You’re not welcome here. Off you pop.” She made a shooing motion with her hands.   
  
“You know, it has been a while since I ground a demon beneath my heel,” Gabriel shot back, his eerie eyes narrowing.   
  
“You’ve grown a pair since our last chat!” Crowley barked in laughter. “Do you  _ really  _ want to try your luck? Against me?” Gabriel paused, a flicker of uncertainty passing over his face. Crowley seized on that moment of vulnerability. “Ohh so you  _ had  _ heard about that…” She grinned again, leaning subtly forward into Gabriel’s space. “I suppose you  _ would _ , wouldn’t you? Heaven ‘n’ Hell are so much more chummy these days!” she sneered, letting her fangs show. “Go away, little bird. You are not welcome here.”   
  
Gabriel’s frown was thunderous, the ominous glow of his eyes stark. “You don’t give me orders,  _ snake,” _ he snarled.   
  
_ Once I did,  _ Crowley’s mind unhelpfully replied.  _ And you were happy to obey.  _ She stuffed that garbage back down where it belonged.   
  
“Are you sure? Because I think you’re going to do  _ exactly  _ what I said. And, hey, ‘cause I’m feelin’ generous, I’ll even give you some advice. On the house.” Crowley smiled, narrowed her eyes, and let slip that silk-soft weight that threaded through her voice. “If a hand of yours touches Aziraphale again, I’ll cut them both off and feed them to you.” She rolled back onto her heels, out Gabriel’s space, and smirked. “Well, we’ve got places to be. Let’s never do this again.”   
  
She spun on her heel, fighting past every demonic urge that screamed at her to  _ run, run, run, _ and tossed an arm around her angel’s shoulder, forcing him to turn as well. His spine was so stiff, it felt like trying to maneuver an iron rail spike.    
  
“ _ Just walk, angel,” _ she breathed and somehow, Aziraphale’s corporation obeyed her, even though she could feel something nauseatingly close to terror radiating off him in waves.   
  
“ _ We can’t-” _ _  
_ _  
_ “We already did,” she murmured, flinching minutely when the clap of thunder and the ripple of divinity announced Gabriel’s exit.    
  
Aziraphale froze, shaking so hard, it was a wonder he was still standing. “You can’t- Crowley-” he gasped. “ _ Never  _ turn you back on an  _ Archangel.” _

“It’s just like a Prince in Hell,” Crowley, trying to urge Aziraphale forward. They could be looking now, watching them right  _ this instant. _ Acting like nothing remarkable had happened was paramount. “Never let them see you’re scared. Act ballsy enough and they start wonderin’ why you’re so brave, if maybe you could take ‘em.” She glanced over her shoulder, where no hint of the Archangel remained.    
  
“Never let them see your  _ back, _ ” Aziraphale wheezed. “He was he, he was here, oh God-”

“ _ Fuck,”  _ Crowley hissed. What had remained of the facade of calm stoicism Aziraphale had managed to keep was crumbling at their feet, and it was strangely disconcerting to be on  _ this _ side of an imminent breakdown. They had to get  _ out of here,  _ because her angel wasn’t wrong - flaunting her tail at an Archangel was a quick way to invite a smiting, and she’d only managed it by riding the coattails of the body swap. There was only so much Heaven or Hell would take before they got brave - or furious - enough to try something.    
  
And then what?

“Hold on,” she whispered, squeezing Aziraphale closer, and snapped her fingers.   
  
Traveling by miracle was not an exact thing. Miracles themselves were not truly exact. Small things, mundane and mindless things that she could do in her sleep were easy. Undoing buttons, locking latches, closing windows, undressing her lover, these were all things that could easily be miracled. The more complicated a thing, the less precise the miracle, and moving two immortal beings more than eighty kilometers south without accidently manifesting either of them into a wall or off a cliff or something equally ridiculous and fatal was not something many capable of such things could pull off. But Crowley was not the typical demon, and with a hyperventilating angel under her arm, she as uniquely motivated.    
  
The trouble was, she hadn’t  _ meant  _ to pop them to the cottage in Devil’s Dyke. She’d meant to snap them into the back room of the bookshop, hoping that the familiar sights and scents would be comforting to Aziraphale, help him calm down. The bookshop always calmed her, so it made sense. But she’d thought  _ home _ , and suddenly she was standing in the empty living room of the cottage, but she didn't have time to correct the mistake before her angel twisted and grabbed her jacket with both hands and put down roots. There was no moving him now, not with his power screwed into the bedrock beneath him. It was a tried and tested defense mechanism of his and had served him well in the past, and it wasn't his fault for not realizing that now wasn't the time.   
  
This was happening  _ here and now,  _ and that was all there was to it.    
  
She snapped and several things happened in quick succession. She didn’t think too particularly hard about any of them, and so they all happened in ways she didn’t expect. Their bed appeared, sporting the solid oak and brass headboard from the bookshop and the state of the art mattress from her flat, with both sets of blankets and pillows, tartan bedspread clashing terribly with black cotton sheets. Their preferred Macalan’s appeared, the bottle from her flat on Aziraphale’s favorite sideboard, with tumblers she didn’t recognize. Books appeared as well, and this she got right, though Aziraphale would probably give her quite the scolding over miracling his first edition Wildes into the South Downs. Couldn’t be good for them. 

“C’mon angel,” she cooed, running her hands down his back soothingly. She tried to pull him the few steps it would take to get to the bed, but he didn’t budge. She might as well have tried to move a standing stone of old. “Angel,” she whispered, stroking whatever she could reach - his back, his cheeks, his arms. “Angel, my angel, shh, my love,” she tried, but that elicited no response. She paused, thought it through. Maybe the voice was too unfamiliar? She shifted her vocal chords slightly. “Angel,” she tried again, the voice came out deeper and rougher. The statue of her lover twitched, and she grinned. “Angel,” she repeated. “My angel, I’m right here. Come with me, love, I have you,” she purred, and tugging gently.   
  
That was enough to break her angel loose, just enough to get him to take a stuttering step when prompted. She coaxed him a few more stumbling steps and onto the bed. He was still stiff and unresponsive but she had him back in their bed, surrounded by their smells and sensations. It would take them part of the way, and she could do the rest.    
  
He was so stiff, her angel, staring off into the distance with unblinking, dilated eyes. It looked so different from how it felt to be on the other side. The desperate gasping, writing, clawing feeling that rendered her a useless, weak thing didn’t show on Aziraphale - he was stone. Solid and unmoving, eyes open but unseeing. She understood - just like she was locked in her corporation when it happened, a writhing mass of muscle and nerve beyond her control, Aziraphale was locked in his own corporation, but rather than stuck in motion, he was frozen.    
  
“Shh, angel, I’m here, we’re safe. I have you, everything is okay,” she whispered, still using the deeper voice. She stroked his cheeks, kissed his temple. Whatever she could think of to draw him back to her, to pull him away from whatever was trapping him in his mind.    
  
It happened in increments. First was the faint tremble of his hands, then in his lips. These she kissed fervently, whispering soothing sounds into his skin. Then he blinked, once and again, and she cooed soft praises to him. “You’re doing so well, angel, my angel, come back to me.” His hands turned to grasp her again, this time at her waist. She pressed his hands tighter into her flesh, encouraging him to hold on however he need to. His hands shook. Finally he breathed again, and the sudden heaving of his chest forced her to realize he hadn’t breathed the entire time. He gasped, his corporation’s lungs likely screaming at him, human synapses telling him that he  _ needed  _ air, even though he didn’t. Corporations were funny like that.    
  
“ _ Crowley,”  _ he nearly sobbed. She was right there, hands all over him, shushing him gently.    
  
“I’m here, I’m right here,” she promised, kissing the gathering wetness at the corner of his eyes, fruitlessly pushing the curls back from his face. “I’m here, I never left, I won’t ever leave you.” She pushed gently, forcing him into a sitting position, and crawled into his lap, wrapping herself all the way around him and holding on tight. If Aziraphale needed her, she’d give herself to him.    
  
“ _ Crowley,”  _ he repeated, still sounding just as lost and desperate. She flailed internally - was she not helping? Was she just making it worse? What was the right thing to do? It was impossible to know with Aziraphale not quite verbal.    
  
“Angel, tell me what you need,” she murmured, kissing his cheek desperately. “I’ll give you anything, you know that.”   


Hands, normally strong and steady, grasped her jacket. “Just…” he gasped again, like the words were stuck in his throat. She shook in sympathy - did he always feel this helpless when their situations were reversed? “How can you stand feeling so… out of control?” he asked breathlessly.    
  
“I have  _ you _ ,” she replied instantly, without thinking, remembering the steady weight of hands holding her still, the grounding sensation of arms around her. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t in control of herself, because Aziraphale was in control of them both, and that was enough- and suddenly, she seized on the answer. 

It just meant crossing a line they hadn’t even toed before, without any discussion or preparation.    
  
“If you need me to stop,” she whispered tenderly. “I will. I promise. All you have to do is say so.”    
  
She reached up and threaded her long, thin fingers through those pale gold curls she so adored. She gripped, not hard enough to hurt, but steady and measured. Controlling. Her angel trembled and then stilled, his breath coming in harsh, shallow gasps. It was the only sign she got, and she hoped it meant she was on the right track.    
  
“That’s it,” she purred into his ear. “Let go of it,” she added on a burst of inspiration, remembering how it felt for her, this horrid, clutching feeling. “Just let it go, don’t listen to it, listen to  _ me. _ ” Aziraphale groaned, but it wasn’t a desperate sound, it was a  _ did you really go there? _ sound and that was definitely an improvement. “Yes I did, and you’d better tell me to stop, angel, who knows what terrible jokes I might make?” Aziraphale huffed, almost a laugh but not quite. “I can’t be left unsupervised, angel, you know this. An angel and a demon walk into a bar-”   
  
“And the angel ducks,” Aziraphale croaked, shocking a laugh out of her. It was stupid thing, a stupid joke she’d first thrown out decades before and they’d been so drunk, they’d both thought it was  _ hilarious. _ The punchline changed depending on who told it, but it didn’t matter, because it was  _ theirs, _ something they could share with minimal risk. She hadn’t even thought of it in an age.   
  
“Angel,” she breathed, feeling his shoulders and back loosen under her grip. “Oh angel,” she nearly wept, that sense of helplessness rising up and threatening to overwhelm her. She pushed it back furiously. She was  _ here _ and nothing could take her away.    
  
“I’m so sorry, dearest-” Aziraphale managed thickly.    


“No,” She shook her head, her hair flying and slapping them both in the face. “No, not for this, never for this,” she continued. “I’ve got you, I’ve always got you-”   
  
“I  _ panicked, _ ” Aziraphale moaned, dropping his head to her shoulder. The weight of his dismay felt as real as he did. “That… that…  _ ponce  _ was right there, and I completely lost control. I should have-” Aziraphale tensed again, one hand releasing her waist to gesture largely, a motion Crowley was familiar with. It meant something along the lines of  _ wring his neck. _ “I should have protected you,” Aziraphale said instead, woefully.   
  
“Hey,” Crowley protested weakly. “Demon, here. Quite good at protecting my own arse, thank you.” Aziraphale huffed again, unconvinced. “Hey, really, angel, what’s the point of our own side if we don’t protect each other? You protect me, I protect you. That’s how it works, yeah?”   
  
“All those years that you protected me, protected us, and I didn’t-” Azriaphale bit off whatever he’d been about to say. “I can keep you safe now, and I  _ didn’t _ , I froze, and you had to go turn your back on an Archangel, of all things-”

“Ehh,” Crowley shrugged, jostling them both. “What’s past is past. I don’t- I  _ can’t  _ expect you to just square up to fucking Gabriel, can I? ‘S’like asking me to go toe to toe with Beelzebub, innit? I might could take ‘em, sure, but if I’m caught off guard, then it’s just like it was before. ‘S’only been a few months, angel, ‘s’not enough time to expect you to be able to just face up to him.” She paused, narrowing her eyes at the wall opposite. She remembered keenly the way Gabriel and the other Archangels had spoken to here when she wore Aziraphale’s corporation. She wished the situation had been different - she’d have lit that fancy suit on fire, just to watch him dance. 

“I want to be able to keep you safe,” Aziraphale whispered against her shoulder. And Crowley, predictably, melted.    
  
“I love you,” she breathed, in awe that  _ anyone, _ let alone the best and most wonderful being in all of creation, would want to keep a scrawny, annoying thing like  _ her  _ safe.  _ “I love you, _ ” she repeated earnestly. 

“Darling, I’ve just failed you rather spectacularly. My first chance to be the one to save you, and I’ve gone and bungled it,” Aziraphale protested mournfully. “Not the greatest quality in a husband, I fear.” 

Husband.   
  
_ Husband. _

That word echoed in Crowley’s mind like a gunshot.  _ Husband. _ Oh but that was light years away from bloody  _ friend,  _ wasn’t it?    


_ He who my soul loves.  _   
  
Crowley was not good with words. Never had done, really. They all got tangled up in her throat, trapped behind her teeth. But she knew these words. She’d read them over and over, clutching each one to her heart and daring to dream, for the first time, that an angel with pale gold hair and blue eyes and a charming smile might one day look to her and say “‘ _ Behold, you are beautiful, my love,’”  _ and she might be able to reply.    
  
“‘My beloved is radiant and ruddy,’” she began, her voice trembling. Aziraphale froze, lifting his head to stare at her, his mouth slightly ajar. He looked  _ awed,  _ and it was  _ heady. _ “‘Distinguished among ten thousand. His head is the finest gold; his locks are wavy,” she paused, threading her fingers through his hair again. She could skip the bit about the ravens - didn’t match. “‘His eyes are like doves beside streams of water, bathed in milk, sitting beside a full pool. His cheeks are like beds of spices, mounds of sweet-smelling herbs.’” She let her hand drift down, cupping his cheek and sliding her thumb across his lower lip. He breathed, watching her like she was  _ divine.  _ “‘His lips are lilies, dripping liquid myrrh. His arms are rods of gold, set with jewels.’” She shifted, running reverent hands down his neck and shoulders. “‘His body is polished ivory, bedecked with sapphires. His legs are alabaster columns,’” she leaned in, breathing in his scent, ozone and divinity and old paper and leather and vanilla, as she squeezed her legs around his waist, suddenly finding him hard against her. Her smile turned wicked. “‘Set on bases of gold. His appearance is like Lebanon, choice as the cedars. His mouth is most sweet, and he is altogether desirable.’” She paused, bracing for the last, the most important part. The part she’d longed to say for thousands of years. “‘This is my beloved and this is my friend, O daughters of Jerusalem.’”   
  
A beat of silence passed, and suddenly, Crowley found herself on her back in bed, her wrists pinned over her head.

“Do you know,” Aziraphale’s voice was ragged. “When I read that, the Song of Solomon, the first time, I pictured you? Draped in jewels and gold and smelling of myrrh, in my tent and not a stitch on you?” Crowley gasped, arching up towards him, aching for his weight. “I imagined you saying those words to me, knelt on my bed, and I finished so hard I thought I’d discorporated? I don’t even remember taking myself in hand.” Aziraphale groaned softly. “I never thought you’d read-”

“I did,” Crowley gasped, frantic with need, pooling low in her belly. It wasn’t a pressure, like with the other set of bits, it was an emptiness, a hunger, a lack that needed filled  _ urgently. _ “I  _ did, _ ” she repeated. “ _ And I thought of you, _ reading it to me, like you were the King and I was the Bride, and I would have gone to my knees for you, I still would,  _ I love you-” _   
  
“I love you,” Aziraphale echoed her, finally,  _ finally  _ leaning down to kiss her. “I love you,” he repeated against her lips. “‘You are beautiful as Tirzah, my love, lovely as Jerusalem-’” Crowley interrupted with a desperate, ragged moan, bucking up beneath him. Aziraphale used a knee to press her thighs apart, and she welcomed him between them willingly “‘- awesome as an army with banners. Turn away your eyes from me, for they overwhelm me-’”    
  
“Never,” Crowley hissed. “ _ Never.  _ I would behold you always.”   


It was like a dam broke, washing over them both, because suddenly everything was in motion. Clothes just vanished, and Crowley couldn’t say for sure who willed them away or if they just disappeared of their own volition. Maybe they burned up under the scorching intensity of what was unfolding - she wouldn’t have blamed them. She lunged up to meet Aziraphale at the same moment he leaned down and they crashed together like asteroids, two titanic energies colliding at unthinkable speeds. They were at the heart of a star, burning and compressing and folding into each other, becoming something new. And they were right there, on the bed she’d miracled there for them, as real and as alive as anything else on the planet. They were more, and they were not. They were all, and they were nothing. They were entire universes, held in two specks of dust. Two stars dancing around each from eternity, finally overcoming the grasp of gravity to collide.    
  
Maybe it  _ was  _ ineffable. She’d never be sure of that part. Faith was not her strong suit. But she knew that it was  _ inevitable.  _ She was made for this being, this awesome creature of beauty and light and wisdom, made to fit against him, to open to him, to lie beneath him and take his passion and give it back to him a thousand-fold.    
  
He laid over her, his weight pressing her down into the mattress, his hips between her thighs. His fingers teased her lightly, cupping the more generous curves of her arse, exploring the new terrain between her legs. She distracted herself with his shoulders, broad and strong, her shelter from every storm, each one begging her to bite and suck marks into. She did so, nibbling with the hint of fangs, sucking hard and soothing with her tongue. Aziraphale interrupted her work to steal a kiss. Such a silly thing, stealing kisses - she’d give them all to him if he asked her.   
  
And then he was kissing down her neck, teeth to her collar bone, and the blasted  _ anxiety  _ was back, making her hands flutter uselessly at his sides. “We- I can- you don’t have to-” she managed to start, staring at the dim ceiling. It was dark in the South Downs, and there was no electricity to turn on. She could miracle a light, of course, but she  _ liked  _ the darkness and the way it intensified sensations.    
  
“I  _ want _ to,” Aziraphale cut in, impatiently. He looked up at her from her chest, lips swollen and eyes dark. “I want  _ all  _ of you,” he continued urgently. “As you are. Like this, or any other way, they are all  _ you, _ and you are all I want.” Crowley whimpered softly, arching up to his solid warmth. “I’ll stop if you need me to, I promise, dearest, but I want this.”

“I want it too,” she admitted in a rush, remembering the times she’d imagined Aziraphale at her breast, at her cunt, lips working her, cock stretching her- She cut off the thoughts before they got to be too much and nodded wildly. “Please,” she added, undulating beneath him. “Just no teasing, not now, I can’t- I can’t take it.”

Aziraphale smiled, blistering in its intensity and rolled until he was on his back and she was astride him. She leaned up, bracing her hands on his bare chest. 

“Would you show my what you like in this shape, my darling?” he asked, still smiling. Crowley licked her lips, grinding thoughtlessly against him. It startled them both, so different from usual. Aziraphale gasped and Crowley  _ moaned, _ like a porn starlet.    


“I… I don’t-” Crowley whined, rocking against her angel, squirming on his lap to get that hot, rigid length right where she wanted it. “I’ve never- not like this,” she continued breathlessly. Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “I mean, by myself- I’ve… I’ve touched, but not with-”   


Aziraphale groaned, broad hands gripping her hips hard. He didn’t have to say anything, she knew what he was thinking - after six thousand years, all those long ages seeking comfort in the arms of others and biting back the other’s name on their lips, there was still a first to share with each other. There was still something they could give to one another, that would belong to them alone.    


This could be theirs.    
  
“Angel,  _ please, _ ” she whimpered. “I don’t think- I can’t, I don’t know how to, to do  _ this, _ ” she stumbled over the words, trying and failing to get her hips to move in a way that accomplished what she needed - pressure and rhythm, relief and release. The motion was less of a  _ thrust _ like with the set of parts she normally used and more of a  _ roll,  _ the mechanics of which she hadn’t mastered. She wasn’t even entirely sure how this was meant to work, really, the angle was different than the usual way, never mind  _ advanced maneuvers  _ like riding.    
  
But as always, Aziraphale knew what she needed before she could figure out how to articulate it and rolled them again until she was on her back again. She locked her legs around his hips and found, suddenly, that they were both in exactly the right spot.    


“ _ Darling,” _ Aziraphale breathed, canting his hips a bare inch or so, sliding right against her clit. It was  _ stunning, _ so much more than she remembered from the last time she’d decided to have one out while using this set. It had to be because it was Aziraphale. The feeling was lower, richer, deeper than the tight, pressurized feeling the other way. It was  _ intense, _ more than she was sure she could bear. Aziraphale was moving again, grinding relentlessly, and she couldn’t take it. 

“Inside,” she begged, reaching up to wrap her arms around his neck and pull him down to her. “Inside me, please. Wanna feel you, fill me up, ‘m’so fucking  _ empty.”  _

That feeling was similar, at least.

She lifted her hips, thighs trembling, and he reached down to line himself up and in a slick, wet rush, he was there. She cried out in surprise, shocked by the sudden intrusion, by how easy it was, the stretch and the lack of pain. Aziraphale moaned, one hand fisting in her hair.   
  
“Darling, darling,” he whispered against her ear. “You feel  _ incredible. _ ”   
  
Worry she didn’t realize she was still feeling melted away. He  _ liked  _ this. He liked her this way, liked her body, liked the way they came together. Sex wasn’t just something for when she was feeling more masculine, she could have this too. Her angel liked this too.

“Angel,” she moaned, working her hips helplessly against him. It was… something, but it wasn’t enough, like an itch that needed scratching, the ghost of pleasure somewhere there that just needed to be chased. It wasn’t like electric pleasure from having her angel’s cock against that spot in her arse, it was a more mellow, creeping sensation. “Angel, please move,” she pleaded.    
  
“Dearest,” Aziraphale breathed, and withdrew slowly. She whined, squirmed, felt weak and small and helpless beneath him, and it was infuriating and intoxicating and she wanted more- 

Her thoughts stuttered to a halt when he thrust back in, just on the edge of rough. Not gentle, definitely not that, but not quite what she wanted, either. Still enough to light up her nerves like a bloody Christmas tree.   


“Like that?” Aziraphale asked, being ridiculous  _ again. _   


“Harder,” she insisted, reaching down to dig her nails into his arse to encourage. 

“No,” Aziraphale replied, rocking into her again. She moaned, bucking her hips fruitlessly. 

“Please, please-”

“No,” her angel replied. “This is  _ mine, _ ” he continued, leaning up to press his hand to her lower stomach, pinning her to the bed, “ _ Mine,” _ he repeated. “And I want to savor it.”   
  
_ Savor. _ This was a word she knew, was achingly familiar with. Aziraphale, Master of Delayed Gratification,  _ savored  _ a great many things in his long and storied life. He’d even savored her before. But Aziraphale savoring anything meant that he’d be at it a while, and it was usually best for her to just get comfortable. 

But the deep, hungry ache between her legs was insistent, pulsing and wild, almost enough to make her sob. It was intense - nothing like the ache of a heavy, swollen cock. This was deeper, hungrier, primal and earthy and more human than anything else she’d ever experienced. She had to have relief. 

“‘Ziraphale,” she gasped, but his only response was a growl, teeth on her collar bone, and a harsh jab of his cock inside her, brushing against something deep inside that made her whole body constrict in a pleasure so sharp and bright it was closer to pain than anything she’d ever felt. “Angel, please-” she managed, but he gave her another ruthless thrust and a long grind that had her seeing stars.

“ _ My demon,” _ he breathed, leaning his head down to mouth at her breast. “ _ My Crowely,  _ so soft and lovely, only for  _ me.” _

And again, the answer flashed like a neon sign in her head. 

_ “How do you stand feeling so out of control?” _ he’d asked.  _ “I lost control,” _ he’d grieved. Aziraphale, always so properly buttoned up, always in control, bossy and demanding and exact. He’d lost control today and he wanted it back, wanted to take control of something familiar and comforting. Wanted control of  _ her. _

She could do that.

“ _ Yours, _ ” she purred, arching the long, sinuous stretch of her body up to him. Demonic power seeped into her voice, dripping from it like luscious dark chocolate ganache, soft and rich and decadent and oh so inviting. “Yours and yours alone,” she continued, letting it flood the space between them. Normally, his power was enough for hers to bounce off uselessly, only as much as he wanted to feel ever reaching him. She liked it that way, liked knowing that if she slipped and tempted him too hard he’d just shake it off like water of a… a bloody duck, she supposed. But there was no wall there now, no huge bastion of divine power to lap against. There was just the raw, brilliant core of him, soaking up her power like a sponge. It was too late to withdraw, but the prickle of fear grew inside her. “ _ Take what you need,” _ she urged him.

There was a pull against her, his will shifting against hers, like ruffling feathers. “Don’t want to hurt you,” he muttered, probably the least articulate he’d ever been in all their lives. 

“You can’t,” she assured him. “You won’t. I’m like this for you only, and I won’t let you hurt me.” Tension in his shoulders released. “ _ Take,”  _ she purred again. “ _ Take,  _ your demon needs you.  _ Fuck _ me the way you want to. I’m for you, angel, all for you-”

She couldn’t say any more because they were in motion. It wasn’t what she’d wanted, the rough handling and the brutal thrusts, but as was often the case with her angel, it was what she’d not known she  _ needed. _ He rocked into, deep and steady, his pace unhurried. He was pressing methodically into a series of spots, one further forward and another all the way in, what were making her breath hitch in a one-two tempo. 

It was taking her apart  _ quickly _ . 

“‘Ziraphale-” she groaned, rocking up to meet his thrust.  _ That _ lit things up in a whole new way, and soon she was working against him. Roll and grind, she found, that was just the ticket.

“I love you,” Aziraphale was suddenly gasping in her ear, and she gripped him tighter, clinging to him. “I love you,” he repeated. “‘My dove, my perfect one, is the only one, the only one of her mother, pure to her who bore her-’”   
  
Too much, too much,  _ too much- _

She cried out, arching up beneath him and throwing her head back against the mattress, hair spreading around her head like a bloody halo in the dark. She felt like she was going to die, explode, catch on fucking  _ fire  _ or something - it had  _ never  _ felt like this before, when she touched herself with this set. 

And then the wave crested and she was on the other side, sliding down into a slick, messy, warm feeling that spread from her belly to her limbs. 

“Ohhh,” she breathed, suddenly understanding quite a bit about that whole hysteria thing a while back. A relaxation so deep and so powerful she couldn’t have possibly fought it began to overtake her. Had she ever been this loose and happy? “Ohh, angel, that was-” She wasn’t sure what it was and wasn’t going to be able to try to say, because Aziraphale was still moving, his pace increasing slightly. She braced for overstimulation that didn’t come, and suddenly decided she needed to spend a bit more time like this.   


“Darling, I-” he groaned, his voice tight, and she immediately tunnelled her fingers into his hair.

“Yes, love, come inside,” she moaned, pulling his lips to hers for a kiss. It was a lovely feeling, this post orgasm feeling. It wasn’t too much, wasn’t overpowering, just good. She could relax, luxuriate in this feeling, focus on her angel. “You feel so good, angel,” she whispered against his lips. “‘I am my beloved's, and his desire is for me.’”

“Only you,” Aziraphale moaned, and his hips slammed home between her thighs. Warmth flooded her, and she smiled up at him, reveling in the feeling. He looked back down at her, hair slicked to his head and gasping, and he’d never looked more beautiful in all the millions of days they’d lived. Even when he was a being light and love and uninhibited by a human corporation, she couldn’t imagine him being more perfect.   
“I love you,” he gasped. She reached up and pulled him down against her chest.

“Shh,” she whispered into his hair. “Shh, I have you. Sleep.”

And he did. She was not long behind.

What felt like a moment later, she awoke to her angel’s voice.

“Dearest,” he started, his voice tight. Her eyes snapped open, curled in his arms. Nothing smelled right or looked right and she felt herself tense in alarm. “Where are we?”

“Uhh,” she lifted her eyes, looking around. The day before came back in a rush and she groaned, collapsing back on the bed. “Little town in the South Downs called Devil’s Dyke.”

“I see,” Aziraphale said, his tone neutral. They were silent for a moment. “May I ask why we are in the South Downs?”

“You can, but I’m not certain I have an answer for you,” she replied, throwing an arm over her eyes. It did nothing to cover the traitorous flush climbing up her neck. 

“Why are we in the South Downs, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked patiently.

“Because-” she cut herself off, clenching her jaw, and sat up. Aziraphale had to shift to let her but didn’t follow, still lounging on the bed on his side. He looked like a bloody Titian painting and it was  _ distracting.  _ “Hold on, this isn’t right,” she muttered, and concentrated. A moment later he felt better, broad shouldered and thin hipped and sporting a different set of plumbing. 

“Ah, I’m afraid I shall miss the long hair,” her angel admitted with a smile. “I spent a number of years wondering how it would look wrapped around my fingers,” he explained. “One night just doesn’t seem like enough.”

Crowley scowled with no true heat behind it and grew his hair out to just shoulder length. “Will that do?” he asked. 

Aziraphale beamed at him, which was honestly all the reward he needed. “Quite. Now. About the South Downs and our presence in it…” 

“This isn’t how I wanted to do this,” he groaned. To be fair, he had no idea how he had wanted to do this, but  _ this  _ wasn’t it. “Look, I’m sorry,” he started earnestly. “We’re supposed to talk about things, and I didn’t talk to you about this at  _ all  _ for  _ weeks, _ and  _ in my defense-” _ he gave Aziraphale’s opening mouth a pointed look, and the angel closed it again, smiling patiently. “-it was a  _ surprise,  _ not a  _ secret _ .”

“A surprise? In the South Downs?” Aziraphale asked, ignored Crowley’s glower. “Are we going on holiday?” 

“No,” Crowley groaned. “Not a holiday. Look, angel, I love you. I love being with you, understand? I wanna be with you all the time.”

“I feel the same, dear, but I’m afraid I don’t quite follow what this has to do with-”

“The bookshop was never meant for both of us,” Crowley interjected. Better to just do it. Aziraphale froze, his brow knitting in concern. “The bookshop was for  _ you,  _ and I love it because it’s  _ yours,  _ but there’s not- there’s no space for me there. And that’s okay!” he continued in a rush, cutting off the look of distress on his angel’s face. “That’s okay! I  _ like  _ it that way! I want you to have the shop ‘cause it makes you happy. And I don’t want you to change it, see? I want you you to keep it the way you like it. Which means, no space for an old snake.”

“Crowley-”

“So I thought-” he winced. “I was thinkin’, cause my flat isn’t right either, right? Not big enough and you clash with the decor terribly-” Aziraphale rolled his eyes so hard, it somehow involved his entire head. “And so I thought, well, what if we had a place for us?  _ Our  _ place? Something for both of us to have together?” 

Aziraphale blinked slowly. “Crowley, are you asking-”

“So I was lookin’ around London and I didn’t find anything there, and nothing grows proper outside, anyway, all the smog, you know-”

“Crowley-”

“And none of the places I saw had enough space for you to keep your books anyway, so I started looking further out and…” He trailed off, expecting Aziraphale to interrupt, but the angel just watched him expectantly. “And… I found this place… and… I know it’s far, way off from London and your shop’s there and all, but- but there’s a study! We can make it bigger, put in some shelving, make a library for you! And the master’s really nice, lots of light, just needs some updates-”

“Crowley, did you buy this cottage for us?” Aziraphale asked gently.

“Not- not quite.” Crowley admitted, crossing his legs awkwardly. “I… I made an offer on it. The sellers accepted it. It’s… it’s  _ ours, _ if you want it.”

Aziraphale inhaled slowly, and then exhaled. Then he gave Crowley the most brilliant smile the demon had ever seen, leaving him blinking in confusion. 

“Angel, are you- are you  _ crying?”  _ he asked. “Forget it! Forget I said it, I’m sorry, I swear I didn’t mean-”

“No, you silly old serpent, I’m not- well I  _ am _ but it’s not that kind of crying!” Aziraphale laughed. “Where in Heaven’s name did you send my trousers too?” 

“I- what?” Crowley couldn’t keep up. Aziraphale snapped and his beige trousers from the day before appeared on the bed with them. “Angel, whatever it is, I’m sorry-”

“No, darling, don’t! You’ve done nothing wrong. You did everything  _ perfectly. _ The timing is quite something though,” Aziraphale laughed, pulling a plain black box from the pocket of his trousers. It looked suspiciously like the type jewelry came in. He sat up, across from Crowley, whose pointless heart was doing something remarkably similar to tap dancing. “This isn’t how I planned do this either,” the angel said with a huff of laughter. “But in all fairness, I didn’t have a plan yet. I only bought this yesterday, right before… well. Before.” He opened the box and grabbed Crowley’s hand, placing the parcel squarely in his palm.

Ever curious, Crowley lifted it to his eyes. He blinked, looked at Aziraphale, then back at the contents of the box. “Angel,” he started slowly. “Is this… this is a ring. Is this a-” Aziraphale smiled and nodded. “This is a ring!” Crowley cried, yanking the band from it’s velvet container and studying it closer. “This is- angel! It’s got-”

“I know.”

“The feather and-”

“I  _ know. _ ”

“-red like a bloody  _ apple-” _

“ _ I know.” _

“ _ Yes.” _

“Really?” 

“Bloody hell, Aziraphale, how is that not obvious?! Fucking  _ yes!”  _

“Well I had thought-” and whatever else Aziraphale was going to say was lost to the morning air in the South Downs because Crowley tackled his lover to the bed, showering him with kisses until angelic hands pried him off. “And, yes from me as well, darling. A cottage for us to have is  _ perfect. _ ”

“Are you sure you don’t want to look around?” Crowley asked anxiously, using his hands to push himself up. “Make sure it’s okay? If it’s not up to your standards I can-”

“Darling, if you chose it for us, I will  _ love  _ it.”

And then Aziraphale, Principality, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, and Angel of the Lord pulled his beloved, The Demon Crowley, Serpent in the Garden, Original Tempter and Purveyor of Sin, back down for a long snog. And it was very, very good. 

**Author's Note:**

> I make no apologies. 
> 
> I lie, I make lots of apologies. I'm sorry. So very sorry.
> 
> Anyway. As always, the twitter tag is @The_Gypsy_Queen. There is a tumblr but it's as neglected as my self-care routines, so best to do what I do and ignore it until Tortie sends me something wonderful. 
> 
> VISUAL AIDS!
> 
> The [ring.](https://www.etsy.com/listing/659381999/evie-006ct-natural-diamond-gold-feather?ref=internal_similar_listing_bot-5&frs=1)
> 
> With one of these [garnets.](https://geology.com/gemstones/anthill-garnet/)
> 
> I'm a fan on non traditional gemstones in wedding rings. Mine is an art nouveau smokey quartz with diamond accents set in rose gold. I like jewelry. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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